The patient takes a moment to answer. That's not unusual in cases like this, and Kyle waits patiently for the words to work their way through his head. As Kyle waits, he checks the obvious wound. Mal did a good job tying it up, of course, but it looks like he's going to have to dig the bullet out.
Finally the wounded man says, "Yes, sir."
Kyle nods, and tries to gentle his already soft EMT Voice, because the man in front of him sees everything that's not Mal as a possible threat. "That's good. We're going to take you into the house and fix you up, all right?"
The answer is bit faster, this time. "Yes, sir."
Kyle hopes that his own words are getting through, that the response is more than just rote agreement. he thinks it is, thinks the wounded man seems to be comprehending about as well as can be expected.
He works with Robby to get … Pet … on the stretcher. They've practiced enough since the last real emergency that getting down the stairs and into the medical room goes smoothly, as does moving… moving Pet over to the bed.
"I'll do a quick check on the wound," he tells Robby. "Get him something strong." The spirits down here taste awful, being as cheap and high proof as they are, but they get the job done. He's heard that the previous Boss would insist on thirty year scotch when she needed medical attention, but that was before his time, and even she never shared that privilege with others.
Kyle nods. "That's good. We're going to take you into the house and fix you up, all right?" His voice is so... soft. Far too soft, the pet thinks. Surely he isn't dying— not from one shot to the leg— but the pet can think of no other reason some stranger might be so gentle with him, if not to usher him into the end with some misplaced act of final grace.
The pet finds his words more quickly this time around. "Yes, sir." He's not exactly sure what all 'fix you up' entails, but he gets the gist.
Kyle and Robby move the pet out of the car and onto a stretcher. The pet tries to be helpful, of course, but it seems very quickly that the most helpful thing he can do is be still.
Part of him hates that. He should be able to do more— do anything, really...
On the stretcher, he's carried down to the basement. His mind wanders vaguely to a sense that feels a bit ominous... Doesn't matter really, though.
In the basement, the pet is moved over to a bed in a medical station.
"I'll do a quick check on the wound," Kyle says, and it seems to be to Robby. "Get him something strong."
Something strong... Alcohol? Part of the pet wants to express to them that they don't need to waste it on him— that he'll be alright without it.
That's what Saša would want him to say.
Unfortunately, the pet is not really sure that's a good idea. He doesn't want to speak out of turn. It's probably going to be easier for Kyle, too, if he has something to dull the pain.
The pet finds himself being handed a shot glass a few moments later with an order from Robby to, "drink." The pet obeys, sitting up a little and downing the small glass. It's... not good. Not at all. Still, when Robby takes the glass back and fills it again twice more, the let is pretty sure it will at least take the edge off the pain.
After a few minutes that familiar buzz of lightheadedness starts and the pet realizes he doesn't feel the aching pain in his leg quite so much. He's given something to bite down on before Kyle starts.
Even with the alcohol, the extraction of the bullet from the pet's thigh is not anything he ever wants to repeat. Kyle digs it out with a pair of forceps while the pet presses his head back against the bed, breathing quick through his teeth with pain and mild panic. The removal is over pretty fast, and while his pained whimpers stop as soon as the forceps are removed, it takes effort to force the panic creeping at the edges of his brain away.
